


Hero

by snowpuppies



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-06
Updated: 2009-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's being abused. Ron comes to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Kitty Poker](http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com).

Peering into the mirror, Harry prodded his lips: swollen and red, and a little sore.

He winced.

Snatching his glasses off and stowing them away in his cloak pocket, he turned on the taps and splashed his face, hoping to rub away the night’s ‘activities’. Still rubbing his cheeks, his way-beyond-five’o-clock shadow scratchy against the skin of his palms, he blearily stared into the mirror again.

He looked like shit.

Running his wet fingers through messier-than-usual hair, Harry sighed. He _had_ to get out of there, promise or no promise. Ron would just have to run solo for the night.

Replacing his glasses and withdrawing his wand, he disillusioned himself, squirming a bit at the raw egg sensation oozing down the back of his neck. He left the loo, carefully navigating between inebriated partygoers; he didn’t want to be the invisible stranger who shoved someone into a table.

Nearing the exit, ginger-red hair caught his eye and he stopped. Ron’s head was thrown back in laughter, a half-empty glass of Ogden’s in one hand, the arm of Anne, from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, in the other. He looked like he was having a great time, so Harry turned to go without saying goodbye. His escape was halted once more, however, when he spotted the bane of his existence, hovering with faux innocence over a small table where two patrons were snogging heatedly.

Damn mistletoe.

Disgusted, he whirled towards the exit, running straight into a wizard carrying a tray loaded with drinks. Startled, the man fumbled to catch the jostled tray, but not before one bottle of butterbeer was tipped over, spilling onto his robe.

“Hey!” he cried, looking about wildly for the perpetrator.

Harry didn’t waste a moment, exiting the pub and apparating home.

 

***

 

He awoke just as he did after every ‘night out’ with Ron: groggy and grumpy. He grunted at the sunlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains, pulled the duvet over his head and wriggled down into his pillow. He’d not had a lie-in in ages—since he’d signed on with Puddlemere, actually—but as he’d said farewell to his professional Quidditch career last Thursday, he believed it was well-deserved.

Especially after the nightmarish night he’d had.

He rubbed his lips, remembering. His bottom lip was still a bit sore; must’ve been the blonde with the big…teeth. She’d been vicious. He shuddered, feeling a bit…dirty. He’d brushed his teeth until his gums bled last night (then again for good measure) before he crawled into bed, but now it was definitely time to do a more thorough job of things. Disgusted, he flipped the duvet off, slipped out of bed and staggered to the shower.

When he exited, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, he headed single-mindedly towards the coffee pot; it was way too early to be up without some caffeine. Half-way there he stopped, startled: sitting at the kitchen table, dunking the last of the biscuits Molly had sent for his birthday into his favorite mug full of coffee, was Ron.

“’Bout time you got up,” Ron grumbled through a mouth-full of chocolate.

Harry jumped a bit at the sound and rounded the table to get a mug. Facing away from his friend, he reached down to make sure the knot in his towel was secure. He was a bit uneasy that Ron was seeing him in a towel—of course, they’d shared a dorm and a Quidditch locker room…_years_ ago—but mostly, he was glad he’d _worn_ a towel.

It was a bit of a bitch when your friends could come into your house unannounced. That was one thing he missed about living as a muggle—privacy. Sure, you could close your floo to friends and foe alike, but it was considered rude amongst family members and close companions to keep it closed unless in very private circumstances, and Harry had no intention of insulting his best mates and surrogate family. Honestly, though, he found wizards as a whole to be a bit nosey. But he dealt with it, of course; anything was better than a cupboard.

He finished pouring his breakfast and turned to his ‘visitor’, who had moved from the table and was nosing about in the refrigerator.

“Where’d you bugger off to last night?” Ron paused to sniff at box of leftover takeaway, which apparently passed the test since he grabbed a fork and started eating, pausing after a bite to tap it with his wand and warm it up. “Went to look for you, and you’d just disappeared. Mirabelle said you went to the loo and never came back.”

Harry sighed, tugging on his hair in frustration, before looking up at Ron, who had an eyebrow raised in expectation and a mouth full of chow mein.

“You looked like you were having a great time, and I didn’t want to barge in and ruin the fun. I knew you weren’t ready to leave, but I couldn’t stay there a moment longer.”

“Harry, you know I’d have gone with you if you’d asked. You’re…my best mate; no party is more important than that.” Harry watched, bemused, as Ron tilted the takeaway box to pour the last bits into his open mouth, a single noodle escaping to land on the head of Harlynn Pierce, the Cannon’s hottest new chaser, as she swooped across the logo on Ron’s t-shirt. Pierce scowled, dropping the quaffle and swiping ineffectively at the noodle.

Ron, oblivious, continued. “But really, Harry, it was a _party_. You know, one of those get-bloody-well-pissed-and-wake-up-with-a-bird-you-don’t-remember type things. It was supposed to be _fun_, you berk, and you left before things got interesting!”

“Ron, you know how I feel about holiday parties—I have nightmares about a giant, jingling bunch of mistletoe chasing me around Hogwarts! My lips—My Lips!—are _bruised_, and this isn’t the first time…”

“Come on, Harry, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. I mean, a few birds give you a snog and you…”

“A _few_?? Seventeen, Ron. **Seventeen**. That’s how many times my ‘fun’ evening out was interrupted by a pair of strange lips latching onto my face. Seventeen kisses that I bloody well never asked for and sure as hell didn’t want in a span of an hour and a half!”

“Seventeen? Harry, you _dog_…” A leer blossomed on Ron’s face and Harry’s stomach clenched.

“Ron…it’s not like that. You know how much I hate all the attention; strangers coming on to me, acting as if they _know_ me.” He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s not as if I’m averse to snogging in general, it’s just that I’d like to be able to spend an evening with my best mate without having to resort to sneaking in and out of the loo under a disillusionment spell!”

Ron reached out and thumped him on the shoulder. “Whoa, there, Harry. Calm down a bit… have something to eat.”

Harry scowled. “You ate the last of the takeaway.”

Blinking, Ron peered into the empty box. “Er…was this your breakfast?”

Harry snorted. “_Was_ being the key word…”

“Balls.” Ron’s brow wrinkled. “’M sorry, mate. What say we go out, my treat?”

Harry wanted to stay mad at his friend, but one look at Ron’s pleading expression and he caved. “Oh, alright. Just…let me get dressed.”

Ron seemed shocked to remember Harry was wearing a towel—_only_ a towel. “Right, you go on and I’ll just have a look in the fridge.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry went to get dressed for the day.

 

***

 

Two hours later, Harry returned to his flat, bemused and a bit bewildered, having accepted another invitation to one of Ron’s _parties_ the next Friday.

He was reluctant to subject his lips to such abuse again so soon, but Ron had resolutely sworn he would protect Harry from ravenous would-be snoggers. It didn’t hurt that he simply couldn’t say no to Ron, no matter how unpleasant the task.


	2. Chapter 2

Ron finished buttoning his robe and fastened his cloak. He leaned towards the mirror, studying his reflection and fiddling with a strand of hair that kept poking him in the eye. He wasn’t sure about the hair; it was at that awkward in-between stage—either needing to be cut or needing to grow out a bit—and looked a bit shaggy around the edges. Bill’s long hair suited him, but Ron was uncertain if he’d be able to pull it off. Of course, he looked like a right prat with short hair, and Hermione had commented once, offhandedly, that he wore the in-between stage remarkably well. He supposed he’d live with it as it was; he was going to the party mainly to coax Harry into having some fun, and Harry had never seemed to care what his hair looked like.

Leaving his reflection, he tucked his wand into his sleeve and retrieved a pinch of floo powder from the mantel.

 

***

 

He emerged from Harry’s fireplace, dusting the ashes from his cloak.

Harry wasn’t in the living area, so he walked to the hallway. “Harry? You ready, mate?”

A thump and a curse, and Harry emerged from the bedroom, wrestling his robe with one hand while trying to flatten his hair with the other. Without further ado, he fell to his knees, arse in the air, and half-crawled under the sofa. He surfaced after a moment, holding a pair of ankle boots triumphantly.

While Harry struggled into his boots, Ron moved to sit on the lounge to wait. He grimaced; something long and hard was poking him in the thigh. Leaning to one side, he felt around between the cushions before he hit paydirt: Harry’s wand. He retrieved it from its hideaway, absently rubbing his leg—he might have a bruise there later.

When he looked up, Harry was near frantic, pulling things from shelves, emptying boxes and baskets, flinging cushions from the furniture.

“Harry.”

His voice went unheard or ignored; Harry continued to turn things upside-down.

“HARRY.”

Harry stopped, blinking at Ron in confusion. Ron simply smiled and held up his find.

“This what you’re looking for, mate?”

“Oh. OH! You found it! Where was it? I thought I remembered having it in the loo, but it wasn’t there, and it wasn’t in the kitchen, either, so I thought maybe I’d left it…”

“Harry.” Ron waited for the monologue to stop. “Was in the sofa. Bloody well stabbed me in the arse when I sat down.”

“Sofa…” For a moment, Harry seemed to go away, lost amongst the cushions and lemon-colored throw. “Sorry about that. You…er…alright?”

“’Salright. No damage done.” He stood from his perch on the disheveled lounge and picked his way through the debris. “You about ready to go?”

For the first time that evening, green eyes met his own. Harry’s eyes had always been a bit…otherworldly, and sometimes, when Harry looked at him, Ron felt as if there was more than _seeing_ going on. He felt stripped bare and hollowed out, and if it’d been anyone other than Harry…

But it _was_ Harry and, right now, Harry’s eyes were wary and weary, begging for reassurance.

Ron managed to smile.

“It’ll be _fun_, mate. I promise.”

Slowly, Harry nodded.

 

***

 

When they arrived at the pub, the party was in full swing. The place was crowded, witches and wizards in every corner, some talking and laughing, others communicating in a more… personal way. An old Hobgoblins tune blared from the wireless, traditional Holiday harmonies skewed into a cacophony of sound that might or might not be considered music.

Ron pointed Harry to a corner table where a few of his Ministry friends sat, half-pissed already, and went to order drinks.

The evening had been progressing nicely—Harry had loosened up a bit, laughing and joking with Ron and his friends—when Ron finally saw it.

It was hovering with feigned innocence two tables over, where a couple, obviously thinking chairs were overrated, had slid underneath the table and were snogging heatedly. He watched with horror, as it floated, merrily jingling its way towards Harry.

Ron wasn’t the only one who noticed; a blonde witch with enormous…teeth was watching eagerly as the mistletoe moved to hover over her chosen prey. He turned to Harry, who must’ve recognized the panic in his eyes, and motioned for Harry to take evasive action. As luck would have it (or _wouldn’t_, as the case may be), their only exit was blocked by a pileup in the queue for the Witches’ Room.

They backed up until, flush against the wall, they realized there was no escape. Ron, unable to stand the thought that he’d failed his best mate so unquestionably, gripped Harry’s near shoulder in a gesture of support.

In hindsight, it was a bit like watching a Quidditch accident, everything happened in slow motion: the jingling mistletoe coming to rest over Harry’s head; the frighteningly enthusiastic witch coming closer and closer; Harry, biting his lip in dread…

Suddenly, Ron knew exactly what he had to do. He’d made a promise, and he was going to _keep_ that promise.

Mind made up, he grabbed Harry’s shoulder and turned him around, and then Ron planted his lips right against Harry’s.

For a moment, it seemed as if the world had stopped. He stared into Harry’s eyes—which portrayed the same sort of shock that taken over his own body—mortified at what he’d done. In his peripheral vision, the blonde sighed and wandered away, and he could hear the mistletoe moving on to other unsuspecting wizards. And still, they remained.

It was beginning to get a bit awkward when someone—Ron wasn’t entirely sure who—moved. Their lips slipped against one another accidentally and his eyes slid shut…and then it was soft and warm and wet and sweet....

…it was like _magic_; not like spells and potions and flying broomsticks, but like un-flying cars and eckeltricity and the tele-whatsit, rare and exciting, unexpected and unexplainable, amazing and wonderful and…everything he’d ever wanted.

His hands slid from Harry’s shoulders into messy black hair, thumbs brushing the hollows of Harry’s jaw. Harry whimpered, and Ron swallowed the sound, his tongue chasing the remnants from Harry’s mouth.

The broke apart, breathless and panting, staring at one another as if they’d never met. Then someone coughed and the spell was broken. Harry looked away and noticed his would-be attacker was gone.

“Er…thanks.” A soft blush was slowly creeping up Harry’s neck.

Ron ducked his head, pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“No problem.” The silence between them was nearly unbearable. “You…wanna sit back down?” He gestured at the table, where two whiskeys sat, unfinished.

Harry nodded and slumped into his chair. Ron sat next to him; he didn’t know what to say. He’d never in a million years thought of any bloke that way, and he couldn’t believe he had snogged Harry, of all people…

But it was _Harry_, and suddenly something that seemed so wrong became so right that he wanted to kick himself for not seeing it sooner, and when Harry’s knuckles brushed against his own, he didn’t hesitate to link their fingers.

He snuck a glance at Harry, who had finally picked up his drink and taken a healthy swallow.

A mischievous smile curled Harry’s lips: “My hero.”

Ron laughed.

 

 

_FIN._

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/102142.html).


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